


gleaming like mother of pearl

by likecharity



Category: Chronicles of Narnia RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fingerfucking, Frottage, Guilt, In Public, Older Man/Younger Woman, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-12
Updated: 2010-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-10 20:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likecharity/pseuds/likecharity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>And, despite the fact that he can feel the warmth of her through the fabric, despite the fact that he's standing in the corridor of a hotel with his hand between a fifteen year old's legs, he finds himself laughing. Because only </i>Georgie<i> would wear Wonder Woman knickers under a gown like that, to a royal movie premiere.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	gleaming like mother of pearl

**Author's Note:**

> Probably about 90% smut. Nearly 9000 words of it. I have no excuses. Except maybe that this was sort of loosely inspired by [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/narniakink/358.html?thread=23398#t23398). Title from the song 'Dirtywhirl' by TV On The Radio, and set during the royal premiere of Dawn Treader. (Georgie is fifteen.)

Ben says "Oh wow, you look—" without actually knowing how he's going to end the sentence, which is never a good idea. He flounders, stammers for a bit trying to find a word that's both meaningful and appropriate, but Georgie has no time for such concerns and just twirls before him, grinning.

"You think?" she says, apparently not at all bothered by the fact that he didn't actually finish his compliment. Which is fine by him—he's happy to be let off the hook.

"Yeah," he says, and then it's coming out before he has a chance to stop it, "really grown-up."

She grins even wider at this. "That's what people keep saying," she informs him, "but it's mostly people who haven't seen me since I was thirteen, so."

"No, you really do, though," he says, because he's already started this now, and besides, it's true. "And I saw you a couple of months ago, so."

"Cool," she says, satisfied, and then looks him up and down. "And you look..." she pauses to find the right word too, which amuses him. "Dashing."

"Dashing?" he grins.

"It's the bow tie," she shrugs, "they make everyone dashing. And dapper, I've been saying 'dapper' a lot tonight too."

"Oh, well, now I feel special," he teases. He reaches up to straighten his bow tie, mock-offended, but she doesn't go along with the joke.

"Wow, you have such big hands," she says instead. 

"I—" Ben stammers, taken aback, "I do?"

And all of a sudden Georgie's taking his hand in hers, and he has to admit that it does look rather big in comparison, but it's difficult to concentrate on that when he's feeling her warm, soft skin against his unexpectedly. She slides her hand around so that they're palm-to-palm, so that he can really appreciate the difference. Her hand seems _tiny_ up against his, all dainty with those skinny fingers only just reaching past his knuckles.

"See?" she says quietly, gazing at her hand up against his.

"Yeah," Ben replies, slightly flustered. He's pretty sure he should have taken his hand away, like maybe, oh, thirty seconds ago, but it kind of feels like it's stuck. In the back of his mind, he hopes no one is taking pictures of this. 

"They didn't get any bigger since the last time you saw me," he says, and then immediately wishes he didn't phrase it like that, because now he's thinking of certain things that _have_ gotten bigger since the last time they met up.

"No, I know, but I never noticed before," Georgie says with a shrug. She links her fingers through his, then, and his fingers nestle down over her knuckles almost instinctively. So small. "I guess boys usually have bigger hands than girls," she adds, and it's almost in a conversational, casual tone, except that she's not taking her eyes off their intertwined fingers.

"Well," Ben says, a little quietly, " _men_ do."

Georgie giggles, and finally now she does look up, which Ben thought would be a relief but really it's a shock to his system and he finds himself unable to look her in the eye, his gaze sort of darting about.

"You're not _really_ a _man_ though," she tells him.

"I'm almost thirty!" Ben reminds her. He slips his hand free from hers, like maybe this topic needs his full attention. It seems like half the time, _he's_ the only one he's trying to convince, anyway.

She giggles again, shakes her head. "But you don't _seem_ it. You'll only be thirty in _actual_ years."

He shakes his head right back at her. Georgie's logic is a strange, and often wonderful, thing. "As opposed to what?" he asks.

She shrugs. "I don't know, but if you're a man, then I'm a woman."

"But you're not," Ben protests. _She's not, she's not, she's not._ "I don't think you can really be called a woman until you're eighteen."

Georgie rolls her eyes. "That's only in _actual_ years," she says.

"Oh, of course." He can't help but smile.

And then Georgie says something that it takes him a little while to actually process, mainly because he can't quite believe she _actually_ says it.

"Anyway, you know what they say about big hands, right?" 

In his stunned silence, she just looks at him, biting her lower lip sheepishly and slowly going pink in the cheeks.

" _Georgie_ ," he manages eventually.

He wants to say _do you even know what that means?_ , but of course she knows what it means, she's fifteen not ten, but god, the implication is just too much for him to handle.

"Sorry," she says, and by now she's full-on blushing, and dammit, she looks so _cute_. "I don't know why I said that. It just came into my head. Was that even right? Or is it feet?"

"I don't know!" Ben says, flustered.

"To be fair, you do have quite big feet as well," Georgie babbles, eyes darting down for a moment. "I'm sorry, I'm making it worse. We weren't even talking about feet."

"No," Ben agrees, his voice slightly hoarse by now. "And, um. These shoes are actually half a size too big. Not that that's—"

"They want you for photos," interrupts Georgie's handler, and Ben hopes that she really _did_ appear out of nowhere like she seemed to, and didn't hear any of their conversation.

"Oh! Oh, okay," he says, and then all of a sudden they're standing in front of a row of cameras together and there are blinding flashes all around, fake snow and real snow mingling in the air, and her hand holding firmly onto his waist while his is trembling a little against hers.

When they turn around, he accidentally steps on her dress, and she trails it out of the way, giggling at him and dismissing his apology. He's surprised by how at ease she seems on the red carpet, compared to how things were a couple of years ago, how she'd get all jittery and need to hold onto somebody at all times. And now she's sweeping off to another row of cameras, running her fingers through her hair and leaving him standing alone, turning back around quickly so that he's not caught gazing after her. For some reason, his whole body feels tense now that she's gone.

**

That's the last he sees of her for a few hours, because he has to rush off and do _Birdsong_. And this has been the plan for quite a long time now, and he was prepared for it to be quite a trying night for his emotions, but maybe not prepared enough. Usually, he has to just sit in his dressing room for a bit after the play, alone and in silence, collecting his thoughts and returning to reality before he can go on with things. But there's no time for that tonight, because the after party has already started, and so he's changing out of his costume quick as a flash and hurrying to the hotel to get back to celebrating. 

"Hello, yay," is how Georgie greets him, and she wraps her arms around his waist and pulls him into a hug before he has a chance to respond.

"You're very touchy-feely tonight," he says when she lets him go. "How was the movie? How was the Queen?"

She ignores both questions. "Only with you," she says off-handedly, and drags him off to the others.

She barely leaves his side all night, even sitting through an in-depth conversation about World War I that he has with Liam, which he's sure should be incredibly boring to a fifteen year old, but to his surprise she actually joins in at a few points, with her limited GCSE History knowledge.

All night, it seems he's being impressed with her maturity in various ways. She has a glass of champagne, but seems no more giggly than usual, and while she heads over to her parents and sisters every now and then, it seems it's more to check up on them and see if they're enjoying themselves than for reassurance.

In a quiet moment, the two of them alone in a corner, Ben sipping on his second (and last) glass of champagne of the night, she asks him about how the play went. He tells her about it, and she asks him to get her a ticket, and he's surprised at how much they can talk like equals now. 

In some ways, he supposes he always treated her as more of an equal than the others do—perhaps because he never saw her when she was a really little girl, like they did, or perhaps because he doesn't feel the same sense of surrogate-parent responsibility like Will and Anna do. But he's not quite on the same level as Skandar, who used to treat her like a little sister and now more like a friend. Maybe in this imaginary little family of theirs, he's more like a cool, approachable uncle, or something.

He knows he's kidding himself, though. He knows that tonight, he's certainly not looking at her like an uncle should a niece. Somewhere down the line, his awe at the way she's growing up, at her maturity, turned into something it definitely shouldn't. And he doesn't have the willpower to walk away from it. He just simply doesn't _want_ to. He adores her, is enjoying her company, and it's not as though he feels there's a risk of anything _happening_.

It seems everybody is going up to bed before them—Will, Anna, Skandar, Will P., even Georgie's family. Ben feels a stab of guilt at the trust they have in him. It's not explicitly stated, but when Mrs. Henley comes over to them to say goodnight, he sees something in her eyes that he's seen before, a look that says she's leaving him in charge of her daughter because she trusts that he will take care of her.

And usually, that's fine, and it actually makes him feel a little proud of himself, but tonight it doesn't sit quite right with him. Mrs. Henley doesn't know the thoughts he's having, the way he sees Georgie now. It doesn't matter that he's not planning on acting on it, the thoughts make him feel guilty enough.

**

It gets so late that eventually they're two of only a handful of people still up, and so they decide to make their way upstairs. They're in the lift, alone, when it happens.

He already feels a bit uneasy being with her all alone in a small, enclosed space like this, which is an unfamiliar feeling and he doesn't like it. He's spent practically the whole evening in her company, but surrounded by other people and noise and chatter it felt fine. Now, they're in this little lift, surrounded by bright lights and mirrors, and he doesn't know what to say to her. It feels like there's electricity sparking in the air between them.

She's looking at herself in one of the mirrors, smoothing down her hair. "Ben," she says suddenly, breaking the awkward silence.

"Yep?"

"Do you really think I look..." she says, trails off just like he did earlier. She's frowning at her reflection, and he hates to see her do that, to look so unhappy with herself when in his eyes, she looks so beautiful.

So he says, "Of course," and then adds, "you look so beautiful," which is probably a bad idea, but it's all that's going through his head and it's like he can't _not_ say it.

She looks surprised, and her mouth slowly curves into a smile. "You're not just saying that?"

"I wouldn't just say that," he replies, honestly.

She twists her mouth at him, still looking doubtful. "You would," she says. "Everyone would. People 'just say' things all the time."

"But I'm not," he insists. 

It's taking them too long to reach their floor; he doesn't know where this conversation is going and he's starting to panic a little. But for some reason his main concern is that she really doesn't seem to believe him, that she's still looking at herself in the mirror like she can't believe anyone could call her beautiful and mean it. And that drives him crazy.

"Georgie, you—" he says, and she's still not looking at him, so he steps forward and takes her hands (which is probably a mistake). "When I first saw you tonight you made me speechless."

She looks up at him, smile creeping across her face once again. "No I didn't," she says, laughing, dismissing him.

"You did," he promises. "Remember how I just said you _looked_ —and then I didn't finish the sentence? I didn't even know what to say."

She wrinkles her nose at him. "I can't tell if you're being serious."

"I've never been more serious in my life," he assures her, which is also probably a mistake, because then her smile fades and she's just sort of studying his face, and he somehow knows what's coming before it happens.

She kisses him just as the lift reaches their floor, a _ping_ sounding out the moment their lips touch. Luckily, there's no one waiting on the other side as the doors slide open, because Ben doesn't push her away as he should. He kisses her back, does nothing to stop her as she pushes him against the mirrored wall and clutches his hips and stands up on her tiptoes in her heels to reach his mouth more easily.

And then the lift's door slides shut again, and Ben's arm snaps out to stop it. She steps back, looking at him anxiously. One hand holding the doors open, the other against his mouth, fingers touching his wet lips almost in disbelief, he stares at her.

"We should," he says, and that's as far as he gets before he's pretty much fleeing, darting out of the lift and down the corridor.

She's trotting after him. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just—I really wanted to do that," she calls, and he winces, passing Skandar's and Anna's rooms and hoping they're sound asleep. "Don't be mad at me."

He wishes she could understand that he's _not_ mad at her, not at all, he's just freaking out right now and doesn't know what the right course of action is, how he's supposed to handle this. And he can't explain. His mind's racing a mile a minute. He rounds the corner into an alcove, and stops abruptly, shutting his eyes tight.

She's just caught up with him, practically jogging after him at the speed he was going, and she slows to a halt in front of him.

"Are you okay?" she asks, voice small and worried.

The thing is, the sensible courses of action he can take right now involve quite a lot of thought and conversation and possibly argument. And right now she's standing here looking at him like he's just broken her heart, and she looks so beautiful and sad and her lips are still shining, and he thinks of the way her body felt pressed up against his in the lift and the way she kissed him so hard, so urgently.

And it seems like the only thing he _can_ do is to take her in his arms and kiss her again. So he does.

Which is a terrible, terrible idea. For many reasons, of course, and the main one in the forefront of his mind right now probably shouldn't be that they're in public. Sure, there's nobody else in the corridor right now, but that doesn't mean it's going to stay that way, and he's not at all comforted by the fact that this whole floor has been let out to the _Narnia_ gang, because he's pretty sure it would be even worse for one of _them_ to stumble across this than a stranger.

But it doesn't actually seem possible for them to get into a room. They're very close to Ben's, and—thankfully—sort of tucked away into this little alcove, quite out of sight, but to get any closer they'd have to stop kissing, and he's not prepared to do that.

Which is bad. Oh, it's so bad.

Georgie slips her tongue into his mouth and he completely forgets what he was thinking about, because _Georgie has just slipped her tongue into his mouth_. She kisses like a teenager, which he supposes isn't surprising. What _is_ surprising is that, though it does make him feel like an incredibly awful person, he sort of likes it. She's not too clumsy with it, actually quite tentative and just exploring, and he wonders how many people she's kissed before. _If any,_ his brain adds, and he gets another sharp pang of that awful-person feeling again.

Then she stops kissing him, and he should probably take that opportunity to get the two of them behind some doors, but he's too busy lamenting the fact that their lips are no longer touching. _Jesus_ , what is wrong with him.

"I want you to touch me," Georgie says, not quietly enough.

"I—oh, no," he says, without thinking, "oh, no no no."

She looks upset, which isn't terribly surprising. "You don't want to?"

Ben says, "I want to, god, of course I want to. I just...I really don't think I can."

"Sure you can," Georgie says with a shrug. 

He watches, slightly slack-jawed, as she pushes him away in order to bend over and hitch up her dress, exposing pale shins and knock-knees and beautiful smooth thighs and oh, oh god, she's taking his hand and placing it between her legs, right on what he suddenly realises is a pair of Wonder Woman-patterned knickers.

And, despite the fact that he can feel the warmth of her through the fabric, despite the fact that he's standing in the corridor of a hotel with his hand between a fifteen year old's legs, he finds himself laughing. Because only _Georgie_ would wear Wonder Woman knickers under a gown like that, to a royal movie premiere.

"That's not really the reaction I was going for," she says, but she's laughing too, and blushing a little, her cheeks colouring behind her freckles.

"Georgie," he says, and then says it again. "I really...we really...can't do this."

"Yeah, but you still haven't moved your hand," she replies, and he looks down, and realises she is correct. Dammit.

She pulls him back towards her, sandwiching his arm down between their bodies and kissing him. But before long she's giggling again.

"What?"

"Sorry," she says, "it's just, you're so bad at resisting."

"Well, that's because _you_ ," he says, "are so irresistible."

He kisses her smile, and she pushes him away gently, taking her hands from behind his back and fumbling about with her clothes again. He does move his hand this time, but only to make it easier for her to—well, do whatever it is she's trying to do.

And then, when she's done wriggling about, she's got the dress hitched up to her knees in one hand, and he looks down to see the brightly coloured Wonder Woman knickers in a discarded tangle around her feet. _Oh._

"Georgie," he says for the third time, "we really—"

She interrupts him by taking his hand and tucking it beneath the lacy fabric of the dress, holding onto it tightly and gently dragging it over her skin. It silences him. He feels the hot skin of her thighs, a brush of soft hair. Their eyes meet, and her expression is like nothing he's ever seen before. She's looking at him so intently, careful and watchful, nervous and curious. When she very slowly lets go, his hand slides between her legs almost of its own accord, finds her hot and wet, slippery against his fingers.

He can't believe he's touching _Georgie_ like this. Can't believe she's _wet_ for him.

"You can put it inside me," she whispers, voice wavering a little, "your finger, I mean. If you want."

God, these are not words that should be coming from her mouth. At least, not directed at him. But then he thinks about her directing them at anyone else and is surprised by the fiery burst of jealousy he feels, possessive.

"Has anyone..." he says, voice not much more than a weak whisper, "have you done that with anyone before?"

"No," she mumbles, shrugs with one shoulder. "But I want to with you."

At least if he's the first one, he can make sure it's _good_ , because he's not some drunk teenage boy at a party shoving his fingers up her without any idea what he's doing. God, the thought of that makes him so sick, and he's surprised by the strength of the reaction.

"Just...tell me if you want me to stop, okay?"

He forgets, entirely, that they're in a hotel corridor. There are more important things happening in his mind.

"Okay," she says, "but I won't."

He strokes her, almost soothingly, reassuringly, until he feels the muscles relax under his hand, and he keeps his hand pressed against her clit as he starts to ease a finger inside her. She's tight, so tight, and she sort of whimpers when he's halfway.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asks, and his voice sounds sort of frantic and breathy. "You want me to stop." A pause. "Oh, god. I should stop."

But as he begins to draw back, she actually reaches down and grabs a hold of his wrist, keeping him still right where he is.

"No, you idiot," she gasps, and she's grinning at him, breathless and shuddery and he's so taken by her in that moment that he's distracted, so adoring. "It's okay, it's just," she takes a moment to catch her breath, like maybe she's been holding it, and licks her dry lips. "Your fingers are—you know," she pauses, embarrassed, "—bigger than mine."

_Oh, god._

"O-okay," he stammers—actually stammers—and it feels like something inside him collapses in on itself as he pulls her closer to him, almost cradling her, feeling her lips open against his chest.

"It is, you know," she murmurs as he gently slides deeper, feeling the slick heat of her, so tight around his finger. "Okay, I mean," she adds, her breath catching just a little and her nails digging into his wrist.

He nuzzles into her hair, smells raspberry shampoo and a touch of acrid hairspray. "Easy for you to say," he breathes, feels a smile curl his lips.

He knows it's not, though—knows this isn't just a breeze for her, knows this is a big deal, a landmark of her teenage years, something she'll look back on as a 'first'. And no matter how much he _wants_ to ignore those things, to push them back into the dark recesses of his mind to soothe the guilt they cause him, it's not fair for her. Belittling her experience is cold, and cruel, and if he doesn't take that into account then he'll no longer be _Ben_ to her. And being some distant older man lacking in sympathy as they do this—that's worse than the guilt, without a doubt.

Being the person she's always known—and loved, and _wanted_ —is the most important thing in all of this. It doesn't matter if he wants to distance himself from it emotionally to make his own life simpler, and it doesn't matter how tempting she might make that, how she soothes his guilt already with her faux-confidence and the casual attitude she uses to cover her nerves. 

"You still okay?" he whispers, and he sounds like himself again, to his own ears at least—a voice he recognises in a situation he feels he's beginning to get a grip on.

"Yesss," is her response, an impatient little hiss against his chest, and he feels the damp heat of her breath against his waistcoat. "Just—I can't—" She makes a frustrated noise, hitching up her dress some more.

It catches on his zipper.

She tugs at the fabric violently. Something tears.

"Shit," she mutters, and it might be the first time he hasn't scolded her for swearing. 

He takes a shaky breath and pulls out of her. For a moment her eyes are on him, hurt and worried, but then he's taking her by the hips and hoisting her up, and she's laughing out loud as she wraps her legs around his waist. Her knickers dangle from one foot, tangled around the heel of her shoe.

He holds her steady with his hands cupping her bottom, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin fabric, and carries her the few feet left to his room. One-handed (and mostly sightless, with Georgie's hair in his face and obscuring his vision), he fumbles with the key card in his pocket and manages to unlock the door.

His intention is to take her to the bed, but then she's giggling against his mouth before going quiet and still, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him deeply. The bed is entirely forgotten about and in seconds he's got her pinned up against the hotel room door. She shifts, and leans her head back against the door, shaking her hair out of her face. Her arms drape over his shoulders, crossing loosely behind his neck, and her legs do the same around his waist. She lifts her chin at him as if to say, _come on then,_ her expression wicked, but all he can do is gaze at her, at her bright-eyed teenage beauty, that familiar cheeky Georgie grin so very different in this context.

She heaves an impatient sigh and clutches his shoulder with one hand for support, reaching down with the other to pull her dress up so it's all bunched around her waist. Her thighs clamped around his hips, now, she shimmies, naked against the crotch of his trousers. He breathes, very slow and very, very shaky. He can feel the damp heat of her, so close, and it makes him want, and want _fiercely_ , but he can't—oh god, he can't—

He wants to touch her there again, wants his hand back where that heat is, wants his fingers back inside her. But his arms are occupied, holding her up, and she seems to have other plans. She slips her hand down between their bodies, and begins to fiddle with his fly. He loses the ability to think at all clearly, as she successfully unbuttons and unzips one-handed, and even shoves his trousers down a little bit at each of his hips so a little lean back is all takes for them to fall to his ankles.

And then she's staring down, at the bulge in his boxers, the shape of his erection beneath the thin cotton. And he's so hard that it aches, so hard that he's beginning to leak through the fabric, wetting it in a small spot beneath the waistband. He steadies himself, afraid of looking back up at her, but when he does she seems to be sort of smiling to herself, her lower lip caught between her teeth, and she looks almost awed.

And then she's hoisting herself up a little in his arms, dragging herself slow and rough across the thinly-covered length of his cock. He moves in instinctively to the touch, pressing himself against her. She jerks her hips just the tiniest bit, and his echo the movement, and the two of them are almost rutting against each other. He can feel her heat, her wetness, and he aches to be inside it, enveloped in it, surrounded by her. She lets herself down once again, a slow downstroke, and he wishes he could see the way she's really _rubbing_ herself against him but her dress obscures his view.

"Ohh," she whispers, a quiet, amazed little sound. "Oh, that feels _really_ good."

He can't speak. It feels as if someone's tied his vocal chords in knots. His arms are even beginning to feel a little weak, even though she's light as a feather.

"Can we—I need—bed," she says, then, almost as though she's read his mind, and he nods emphatically.

Still carrying her, he pretty much waddles backwards the couple of feet to the bed, his trousers still around his ankles. He feels the wood hit the back of his legs and then he's toppling onto the mattress, Georgie on top of him, straddling him now and giggling. She settles herself down over him, leans in to kiss him with a smile, and his hands tremble against her back as he fumbles blindly for the tied strings behind her neck. When he undoes it, the sleeves slip down her shoulders and stops kissing him to sit up, which makes the whole top part of the dress sort of flutter down and expose her chest. 

She's wearing a plain white bra, just two triangles of thin cotton, and for some reason he loves that beneath this beautiful ball gown she's still wearing such Georgie underwear. She fiddles with a zip at her side and then pulls the whole dress over her head, stretching upwards, her stomach muscles tense beneath that pale, flawless skin, and instinctively, he reaches out to touch her, just stroking the smooth skin, tracing a circle around her bellybutton. She tosses the dress aside and looks down at him, her hair all messy. She smiles, and he smiles back almost sheepishly. For some reason, it feels incredibly intimate, just touching her stomach like this, perhaps simply because it's not something he's ever done.

Then again, he's never done any of this with her. She's sitting over him, naked but for her shoes and that bra now, and his eyes flicker over her body, stopping at the place where they meet, the little tuft of auburn hair where she rests her weight against his erection. He touches her with both hands, now, slides them over the gentle curve of her waist. His hands look so big against her, his thumbs meeting in the middle of her torso. They tremble once again, and she squirms suddenly, letting out a sudden giggle.

"Tickles."

"Sorry," he says, and she shakes herself, leans down over him and runs her hands down _his_ body.

She starts to unbutton his waistcoat, and she's only done three or four before she's making frustrated noises and hurrying with the rest, clumsily. Finally, it's open, and she pushes the two sides of it apart, heaving a sigh before starting on his tie, almost frantic, yanking at it. He understands her frustration—god dammit, why did he decide to change into a three-piece suit?—but the way she's going, she might tear something. Else.

"Hey, hey," he whispers, gently placing a hand over hers, meeting her eyes and smiling.

He undoes the tie himself, and he's about to sit up and take it off (along with his waistcoat, and jacket) but before he gets the chance, her fingers are back, this time undoing the buttons of his shirt, quick and dextrous this time until she's spreading the shirt open too. She bites her lip again, running her hands over his bare stomach and chest, marvelling at the feel of its rise and fall as he breathes.

She traces his bellybutton too, grinning at him, and then trails up to his nipple and strokes it, just feeling it between her fingers. To his surprise, then, she ducks her head, holding her hair out of the way as she kisses his nipple, just a soft gentle press of her lips to it before she straightens up. She pulls herself down onto his thighs, and hooks a tentative finger into the waistband of his boxers.

"Can I—" she starts. "I mean, I don't want us to actually—but I—"

"Oh, and I wouldn't," Ben stammers hurriedly, " I wouldn't, George, not even if—"

She seems to ignore him, focused on what she's saying. "But I," she says again, "I need to touch..."

Ben shuts his eyes tight as he nods, and he feels her nimble little fingers peeling down the boxers, careful but anxious, and he's embarrassed at the way his cock flips up against his stomach with a slight _smack_ , he's so hard. But as soon as she's unhooked the underwear (and the trousers, still tangled around his ankles) from his feet, she's transfixed, crawling back up and touching him sooner than he expects, just a fingertip running the length, brushing the head curiously, gathering wetness there before stroking back down. And he can't help it, he's bucking up into the slightest of touches, desperate.

She loops her fingers loosely around him, and it sends a little shock through his body when he sees how small her hand looks circling his cock. Her fingers don't even reach all the way around. It makes him squirm, makes him feel hotter and needier and it's so wrong, but so _deliciously_ so. She strokes him in a very slow, experimental sort of way, and only very, very briefly before she's going back to what she really wants, spreading her legs over his hips once again and just gently lowering herself over his cock where it rests heavy and thick against his stomach.

There's no way he can move, only watch, watch as she sinks down until their skin touches. It's just the slightest, barest of touches, but the skin clings slick and hot as she moves down him, and his whole body jerks suddenly at the feel of it. He realises that he's clenching the sheets in his fists so tight it hurts, and he's almost lifting up off the bed in his desperation to be as close to her as possible. His brain is clouded over, he feels as if he's drunk. He forces himself to drag his eyes away, to look up at her.

She tosses her head back, hair cascading down her back, and lets out a long breath, her whole body quivering with it. He can see that her nipples are hard through her bra, and there's a slight sheen of sweat across her chest. It's so hot, _so_ hot, especially for Ben with his clothes bunched up on either side of his body, his arms still in two layers of sleeves. Georgie's gaze slides downwards again, and he follows it, and all of a sudden a flash of sense comes back to him and he panics.

"Oh, no, we should—" he says, and can't figure out how to word it, so he just sits up, abruptly, and she sort of slides off him, looking worried. 

He wants to reassure her but he's not sure how to explain, so he just crawls over to the side of the bed where his suitcase lies. Then he becomes aware of the fact that he's still half-wearing entirely too much clothing, and wriggles out of the open shirt, waistcoat and jacket, pulling his tie from around his neck. Once he's done that, it only seems logical to toe off his shoes, peel off his socks. And then, rummaging through the suitcase, he finds his wash bag, and in it, condoms. He begins to fumble with one. He doesn't really think about how long it's taken him to do all of that, and how Georgie doesn't actually know _what_ he's doing in the first place, until he hears a small voice from over his shoulder.

"Oh, but..."

"No, no, it's okay, it's okay, I know, I'm sorry," he babbles at her, and he stops fiddling with the foil packet to reach out and caress her cheek. "I promise," he says sincerely, because oh god, the idea that she might think he's just suddenly deciding to _fuck_ her regardless of her feelings makes him feel absolutely terrible. "Just—to be safe."

She nods, still looking a little confused, and he kisses her. "It's just that we can't...we can't be in contact, like...like that, without it being risky, unless..." 

She looks embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I didn't think."

"No, god, don't apologise," he says, feeling even more awful, "it's not your fault, it's mine, _I_ should have thought."

And he should have, because he can't expect her to think about things like that. His brain adds _at her age_ and the guilt courses through him once again, as he wonders whether she even _knows_ that condoms can be necessary even if he's not inside her. It's horrible to be reminded that he's doing this with someone who might not even know that.

But somehow— _somehow_ —it's even worse to think that he might have hurt her by expecting her to know more than she does. Because seeing Georgie sad is just—one of the worst things in his life, something that always seems to send him into a frenzy trying to fix it, make her feel better. He doesn't know why, but when he sees her like that, it absolutely breaks his heart. Always has.

"Hey, here, it's okay," he murmurs, pulling her close into a hug, and he presses his lips to her bare shoulder, strokes his fingers through her soft hair. "Don't feel stupid."

"I _do_ , though," she mumbles, voice muffled against his neck. "You probably just want to—and I'm not, I don't feel ready—and why would you even...when with _other_ girls..."

She's not making a whole lot of sense, but he can fill in the blanks.

"Georgie," he says, pulling back from her, holding her at the shoulders and trying to get her to look him in the eye. She looks so miserable all of a sudden, insecure and anxious. "Georgie, god. That is _not_ what I want from you. Come on." She still looks hurt, and he catches the way she might have taken that sentence. "Not _all_ I want from you. By far," he adds.

She raises her eyes at that, looks at him. "Really?"

"I swear," he says, even puts his hand on his heart, which makes her laugh a little. "You are...you are so special, and wonderful, and—and _beautiful_ , that _anything_ you want to do with me is...is..." he flounders for the words that will fully express it, "...is almost more incredible than I can handle."

And okay, maybe there are a few reasons that it's more than he can handle, but the important thing is that he's telling her the truth, because he needs her to know that they really are more on the same level than either of them think sometimes.

She brightens, almost instantly. "Really?" she asks again.

"Really," he assures her. "Absolutely. God, you're amazing. I wouldn't be doing this if you weren't as amazing as you are."

A grin spreads across her face, and her cheeks colour slightly. "So can I..." the grin turns mischievous, "can I do...it...again?"

He laughs, sort of shakes his head to himself in disbelief. His hand goes to his cock, which is quickly becoming as hard as it was before. "Please," he says, and kisses her on the forehead.

"I wanted to touch your skin," she's pouting a moment later, stroking a finger down his cock, which is now sheathed in latex.

"I can still feel it," he reassures her, and he shudders as her finger travels over the tip. They both laugh, breathy. "See?"

"Can I?"

"Uh huh."

And then just like that she's back at it, spreading her hands over his taut stomach for support as she pulls herself up along him again, ever so slowly, drawing herself over the long shaft of his cock. And back down again, and back up, and she quickly loses her slow rhythm and just shudders and shakes above him, canting her hips quickly back-and-forth against the hot hard shape of him.

He can almost imagine he _is_ inside her, though it's something he hardly dares to think about. But the way she's moving, grinding against him shallowly like she's riding him, it makes it so easy. And it's not enough for him, but somehow it _is_ , because he knows he couldn't have more.

"It's wetter," she observes, so breathless now she's almost panting as she notes the slickness of his cock, the ease with which she can pull herself along it.

Ben smiles, dazed. "That's you," he murmurs.

"That's _you_ ," she corrects, and flashes him a grin. And then she bites her lip, and asks him, "Do you want to try?"

 _Does he want to try._ "You mean—?"

"On top of me," she says, at once bold and shy, not looking at his face as she speaks but down between their legs.

He takes her by the hips, and she giggles as he rolls her over onto her back. Her legs fall apart almost instantly, opening to let him between them. He lifts his hips so that his cock doesn't touch her, and for the moment he just kisses her, kisses her and kisses her. He can't get enough of how eager she is, how she kisses like nobody else, with no worries about her technique or trying to respond to his, just honest, intuitive kissing. 

But then she's squirming beneath him, wanting more friction, and he grins against her mouth, breaking the kiss. She reaches down between their bodies, grasping his cock with more confidence and certainty this time, and she pulls gently, his hips dropping. She sighs, head settling down against the pillow, as she holds him there, his cock just resting against her.

"You okay?" he whispers. Seems he hasn't asked it in a while.

"Of course," she says, looking genuinely puzzled by the question. "I trust you."

He takes an unsteady breath and straightens up, on his knees. She lifts her legs up, and he looks down between them, sees the flushed slickness of her, and he presses his cock there, sees the folds open around the shaft. He pushes up, fighting the urge to push _inside_ , and the head of his erection meets the hard nub of her clit and the two of them moan, slightly startled by how good it feels. Georgie reaches down, covers him with her hand, pressing him ever closer to her, and he does it again—slides along her, up and down, her hand and her body almost cocooning his cock.

When he manages to tear his eyes away, she's grinning at him, but it's a dazed grin and her cheeks are rosy and she's breathing as heavily as he is. He finds himself grinning back at her.

"Good?" she asks.

He pauses, stops the languid sway of his hips. "Really good."

"Don't _stop_ ," she squeals, swatting him.

And so he gives her what she wants—he _always_ gives her what she wants, often against his better judgement—and carries on rocking his hips back and forth, sliding against her.

He's done something like this before, but as a precursor, just a brief bit of playing around before fucking. And now that he knows this is all there's going to be, everything feels a hundred times more intense. Her slim fingers holding his aching cock to her, the way he can feel her _throb_ against him, a quick and needy pulse that echoes his own. He can feel her clit, erect, rubbing against the head of his cock every few strokes.

She's almost moaning now, making little sounds, and when he catches her eye again he sees that she's grinning again, and he can't help but do the same. It's the most he's ever _smiled_ during sex, but part of him thinks that's how it's _supposed_ to be—what is it if it's not fun? And he supposes, in some weird way, he's always had fun with Georgie, so this shouldn't be a surprise.

It's when they really get a rhythm going together that he feels like he's going to come. He's watching her, sprawled out on the bed before him, her breasts swaying in her bra with the movement (and he wishes one of them had taken it off, but it doesn't really seem to be the time now), and in that moment, he almost doesn't feel guilty. Because she looks so _happy_ , flushed and sweaty with her hair all in her eyes, grinning and panting. It almost seems that her smile isn't about the way it feels for _her_ , but that she's just happy to make _him_ feel like this.

When he comes, it's as he's leaning down over her to kiss her, and there's something about the change of angle that gets him. He freezes, shudders and gasps, inches from her face, and he can feel her watching him tremble like that, as his orgasm courses through him. She rubs her hand against him when his hips can't keep moving, milking the rest of it from him.

The pondering words, "Wow. I've never seen anybody come before," are the next thing he's aware of, Georgie tilting her head on one side.

Ben chuckles, breathless and lightheaded and a little bit embarrassed at the way she's sort of inspecting him. "Hang on," he says, and lifts himself off her, pulling off the condom and managing to wobblily cross the room to the bin.

When he turns back, he's almost stunned at the way she looks. She's still lying with her legs open, and he can see the way she almost gleams between them with wetness, and she's smiling at him, looking sleepy and content. And she's still wearing her shoes, the daft thing, the little beige heels still on with her knickers tangled around one. And he's gazing at her, and he just wants everything all at once, he wants _her_ , he wants her so badly he can hardly believe it, and it doesn't even matter that he just _had_ her.

In half a second he's back on the bed, on top of her, kissing her soft open lips, her jaw, her delicate neck, her chest. He lifts her up to reach behind her and undo her bra, and then he's kissing her breasts, her nipples, nibbling them gently and making her laugh. Her skin is hot, and it tastes sweet against his lips, and before he's entirely aware of what he's doing, he's nestled between her legs, his nose buried in soft russet hair and his mouth pressed where his cock was just moments ago.

" _Isthisokay,_ " he says, and then pulls his head back and says it again, more clearly.

Georgie laughs at him, but he can tell she's a little nervous, trying not to show it. "Uh huh," she says. "I don't know, you haven't really done anything yet."

He wrinkles his nose at her.

"What, you haven't!"

"Point taken," he replies, giving in, and it's like her teasing seems to spur him on because the next thing he knows, his tongue is sweeping across her and tasting the bud of her clit, and pushing as deep as he dares between folds of slick-hot skin.

And she bursts out a sudden, loud, surprised, "Oh, _God_ ," her fingers grappling at his head and shoulder, clutching onto him.

He's always _loved_ to do this, but doing it to Georgie is somehow even better, because she seems so astonished by how good it feels, and for some reason it makes his heart swell.

He slides his tongue over her swollen clit, again and again, just wanting to bring her as much pleasure as he possibly can. His hands are braced on her hipbones as she tries to buck upwards, holding her down as he licks and licks at her, coaxing the orgasm from her with every stroke of his tongue. He can feel it coming, and her thighs are almost clamping around his head as he lets go of her and just lets her grind into him.

And then she's panting his _name_ , breathless and frantic, "Ben, Ben, BenBenBen," and rocking herself against his tongue, clenched and tensed and then her breath hitches and she's coming so hard she's suddenly quaking beneath him.

He holds her steady through it, and when she finally grows still—or more still, anyway, but still sort of trembly—he presses a kiss between her legs before sliding up alongside her, and she curls up in his arms.

"I love you," she's babbling, teary-eyed and bright pink, "I love you, I love you, I love you."

"That," he says, and flicks her on the nose, "is a cunnilingus-induced love. I'm not sure it counts."

"Cunni-what?" she says, and then, "I don't care. Did I mention that I love you?"

"Only five times," he teases.

"I love you," she says, and then shrugs at him and adds, by way of explanation, "I like even numbers."

They stare at each other for a long, long time, him watching every slight movement of her big blue eyes. And then she says, "You didn't say it back."

"No," he agrees. "I don't think I should." He rolls over onto his back, rubs his temples, runs a hand through his sweaty hair. "Not that I should have done any of this..."

"Exactly," she says, so matter-of-fact, "so you may as well. Only if you _do_ though."

He shakes his head at her. "George, you know I do," he sighs. "I love you. I adore you. It's actually a little bit ridiculous and maybe also worrying. Hence—" he gestures vaguely at the state of things, their naked bodies sprawled out across the dishevelled bed, "—this."

She drops her head, presses a kiss to his shoulder. "I don't want you to get all regret-y now," she murmurs.

"I think it's too late," he murmurs back.

"Damn."

"You should probably go back to your room," he says, and he tries to make it sound as much like a casual suggestion as possible.

"Yeah," she agrees thoughtfully.

A pause.

"You're not going to, are you?"

"No."

Ben can't help but smile at that. He pulls her close, tucks her under his arm and strokes her hair, lazily, fingers idly curling loose strands. "I don't want you to," he admits. "I just...so nobody gets suspicious."

"Uh huh. I understand," she says in a small voice. She sounds a bit sad again, and his heart hurts.

"Or maybe you could stay and we'll work something out in the morning," he suggests, and it's probably not a good thing that all she has to do to get what she wants is 'sound a bit sad'.

Georgie yawns, and says, "That sounds good," and when he looks at her, she's grinning.

And he's still panicking inside, already worrying about _how_ exactly they're going to work something out in the morning, if she's going to have to get up really early and sneak back to her own room, and what if she bumps into someone on the way. He's still overcome with the guilt of what he's done, hating himself for the excuses his mind makes about how she initiated it, how much she wanted it and enjoyed it. He's still fretting about the future, because he can't _imagine_ not doing this again now that they've done it once, but oh god, how is he going to live with himself if this becomes an ongoing thing?

But. _But._ Right now Georgie's snuggling up to him, warm and sleepy and satisfied, smiling at him and leaning in to kiss him a little clumsily on the lips. And she's happy, she's _so_ happy he can practically feel it radiating off her. It's contagious, spreading through him. 

And he realises that perhaps, above all else, just keeping her this happy is his number one priority.


End file.
